


Dreams That Walk, Nightmares That Talk

by ToothPasteCanyon (DannyFenton123)



Series: Ben's Dreams [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Transcendence (Gravity Falls), Gen, The Mindscape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2019-11-18 09:44:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18118274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DannyFenton123/pseuds/ToothPasteCanyon
Summary: Ben's been visiting the Mindscape every day since he was born. Once he brought something back, and twenty years later, Marie García is still picking out the pieces.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilaclily00](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilaclily00/gifts).



> Potentially triggering content - scroll to endnotes for further details.

                No wind, and yet grass that rustles. No sun, no stars, and yet a warm, afternoon glow that seems to permeate the whole field. The sweet smell of hay, the sound of wasps or something buzzing. This has to be the nicest area in the whole Mindscape.

                Even if it wasn’t, Nightmare has come from far worse. Nightmare hasn’t been in existence long – it has barely gained a conscience, and as of yet has no name – and up until recently it spent its existence cowering away in the crevices of Shaa’Tooh’s volcanic domain. The demon Shaa took pleasure in hunting down the nightmares that sheltered in its territory, and every moment Nightmare lived in fear of coming face to face with the Burning One’s orange eyes.

                But as Shaa prowled along the black rocks and flowing lava, a bigger demon was lying in wait. Nightmare heard the Burning One’s cries, the sound of its soul being ripped out and devoured before its eyes, and took this chance to escape.

                Freedom!

                Danger. All around. Out in the vast expanse of the Mindscape, all alone, Nightmare felt the gaze of a thousand beings trained upon its soul. There was nowhere to hide, and no way to fight; it was good that Nightmare was so small, so young, so weak, or any one of those watching demons could decide it was worth the effort and consume it.

                Nightmare needed a territory, a place to shelter from their eyes. In whispers, it had heard of Alcor’s domain: a place where nightmares are not hunted by its demon, but cared for. Why? No one knows, but it is said he calls them ‘the Flock’… and he welcomes newcomers.

                Welcome. Nightmare chases the hope that word brings.

                Distances are strange in the Mindscape, and after an eternity, in the blink of an eye, finally, with a snap of a finger, Nightmare is here.

                Floating above this great green expanse, listening to the lazy buzzing sound drone on. So strange, how Alcor has made it mimic the physical realm. In the distance, Nightmare can see a tree, and beyond that a fence, and beyond that the pill-sized figures of the Flock itself.

                Nightmare can’t believe it’s here. It forms two hooves; they stick out of its amorphous form, glinting in the mysteriously sunny light. It glides down and steps onto the grass with them, sinking a little into the springy soil. It felt… not bad.

                Quite nice, actually. Wow. It forms teeth to eat the grass, and then ears to hear the buzzing better, and it lets its form poof out into wool and-

                Is the buzzing always that loud? Nightmare can hear it drilling through its newfound eardrums; it winces and lets them collapse, but it is still getting louder, sharper…

                Closer.

 

                Nightmare turns, and- _oh horror of horrors_ G̴̦͔̭̺̫ͅȨ̵͚̞̭̗̜͖T̸̷͕̫͙̝̱̬̲̫͔͘ ̢̻̱͓̱͈̬̜A̭ͅW̵̭̗͍̪͇͖Ạ̵̪̟͚̲͝Y҉̺̖̘͙̤͉̘̘͚͞ G̵̵̭̘͔̝̘̠̝̺̞͍̠͝E̸̫͓͎͔͈͖̮͈̮̜̰͇͠͞͞T͏̸̧͍̬̤͎̝̝͉͔̥̺̟̙̺̜͕͡ ̵҉̝̳͓̘̙̪̠̘̳͢͟Ą̭̘̩̮͢ͅW̴̵̠̲̞̫̭̘̻̦̳̘̝̯͍͍̞͍̦͉͝͞A̴̵̪̠̖̤͖̬̬͚̺̞̝͇͙̭̳̺̯͈Y̶̛̛̯̞͖̘͍ ̛̹̮͈̰͉̣̠̙̳̙̩̹͜F̵̡̧̯̰̜͔̜̹͖̥͟͠R͎̮̼͕̙̺̩̬̜̞̭̥͓̥̯͔̱̲̕͟͢͞ͅO҉̨̱͉̠̜͈̬͟M̨̨͏̺̳̙̠̯͍͖̠̯͔̼͢ ̛͡͏̷͏̭̗̩̯̘̹̻̜͉̱̦̫͎͔̯M̸̨̨̭̦̮͍͢͟Ȩ̶̫̲̞̫͔̬̝̬͈

                                                                N̝̺̠͔͙̠̞͕̰̲͕̯͔͇̳̋ͫ͑͑͑̇̿̓͂͌̉ͯ͛̾̑͝ͅO̶̡͎͚̲͈̮͎͔͉̲̗̿͊͌͗͒͋̍ͩ͐ͭͤ̈́̎͟͝Ợ̵̪̝̫̻̱̭̤͎̪͚͖̪̜ͦ͑ͦͪ͗̑̃ͪͨ̍̅ͯͩͤ̓̃ͤͬ͘ ̨̻̝̞̟̰̖̥̮̘̱̤͆̑͊́͞͞N **͈̲̘̮̼̮͕̦͍͉̜̘̼ͫͯͧ̎ͥ̄̏͐ͬ̾̉͂̎̏́ͨ̃̊̋͟͞͝ͅÖ̮̙̠̭̬̠̫̲̥̹́̋͛̍̇̆ͯ͊͂ͥ̆ͤ͋̚̕ͅ ̴̨̼̱̭͍̜̗͇̣̿̽͗̅̅̇ͨ̀́̐̏̑ͯ̃̑̈̏͊͢ͅS̶̾̓̒̿͋ͮͦ̇́̈̄̓ͦ̿̽́ͣ͟҉̙̲̠̼̝͈͇̪̫͚͍͈̖͙͙͈̰͕͟͠T̴̶̡̞̻͎̗̣̖͕͖͔̲̊͋̔̊̓͊̍̏͐͐͑̃ͧͧ̇̑̉ͥ͊Oͣ͋ͧ̿ͧ̀̀ͧ͐ͧ͐̑̿ͯ͛͋̈҉̴̥̯̼͙͓̲̠͖̜̮̫̻̻̠̕̕͠P͍͖̫̲̮͓̖͔̪̖͎͔̩͇͎͚͇͍̾̄̍̇̓ͬ̓̂ͯ̿̆ͦͭ̇̓̀̒̍̚͞͠͞ ̸̓̀͆ͧ̾ͤ҉̣̺̹̱̣͈̹͖͈̙̼͉Ņ͎̞͎͚̬͈̝͇͙̮̤̥͚̺͍̺̺̎̑ͣͥ͒̉̓͂̓̀͑͘̕Ơ̷̸̧̘͙̣̗̼͓̦̻̜̗̝͍̖͕͙͉̫̔̑̅ͯ̅̉͐͐̂̚ ̡̨̻͔̦̝͔̙͈̳̼̺̺̦̹̖̙̞̾ͭ̏̀ͥ̋ͩ͢͞ͅP̛̗͓̠̫͓͔͈̗͙̙̣̼̭̗ͩ̽̈̊̾͑ͯ̓͗̍̆͗̇̄ͮ̀̔͝L̶̥̠͇̖̼͈̯̖͈̥̮̤̪͚̝̪̄͌̒́̌̓͞E̷̊̂̋̈́ͫ̄̇͑̔̈̈̽͡͏̨̰̗̝̺͎̻̳͞Ą̶͖̞̟̭̮̣͇͓̺̬̼̹͈̜̦̫̭̃͗ͮ͋̀͗̅͂̈͌̀̈́͡S̠̝̝̤̬̟̺͎͚̞̹̤̣͓̆̄ͯ̎͛͊̈̌E̸̡͚͓̞͍̺͙͎̣̳̓̒̐̓̐̔ͮ̅̌ͪ͛̏̉́͊͞͝** **/̵̶̨̩̗̜̤̰̮̭̗̲̾ͣ̈͛ͫ͊͋ͭ͒̃̑ͭ͊̽̉ͨ̀ͥ̚͞/̴̷̢̡̛̘̲̘͓͉̳͖͓̬ͤ̀̆ͣ̋̆̊̎ͦͥ̑̓̄ͬ/̨̤̰̜͇̘̝͚͓̠̜̩͔̺̮̻̪̩̋͐̎ͤ̓͋̍́̀̂̋ͭ͑̚͘͝.̧̡̰̝̰͚̳͈̼̙̱̫̦ͦ̍̈̒̆͂͑̀̃̑͋͘͢͠/̄̍ͦ͗ͩ͗̇͛͋ͬ̔ͥ͊͆͢҉̡͇̟̝̭̥̪̼̺͠͡.̵̡͈̙̹̹͚̫̮͉̺̙͙̲̹̞̺̫̄̐̆ͪͤ̉/̸̷̨͕͙̙̗̤̦̭̮͇ͨ̍ͨͣ͋̕.̵͕͚͕̬̱ͤͬ͗ͨ͗̎̅̃͐ͥͮͣͧͮ̓̄̚͜͜/͇̰̣͉̻̓̏̉ͭ̈́ͬ̑ͪ̍ͭ͘.̢̛̳͇͙̠͈͇͇͔͚̗̦͙̩͙̻͇̟͉̯ͬ̀ͬ̌́̔ͨ͌ͯ̆ͩ̚̚/̴̺̗͖̰̹͇̲̣͕͎̣̟̫̔͗̊ͤ̕͟.̷̯̹̪̣̗̰̘͍͙̺͕͎̬̓̽ͫ͐̆̏ͮͧͦͯ͒̔ͩ͢͟ͅ.̵̨͔̭̭͖̠̰͙̎̌ͬ͊̅̐͑̓͐ͭͣ̽͗̊̌ͩ̓͢,̤̳̱͉͕͔̱̠̥̱͔̣̝̪͔̞̟͗̏̏̃ͤ͒͗̂̈́̃͂͑͂ͯ͠/̛̼̬̫̪͖̰͎̘̼̱͚̥̦ͭ̑͗͋́͒̉̎ͨ̿̄ͪ͐͢.ͭͭ̅̒͊̇̋͌̀̓͆̈́̂̌ͧ͐̒ͦ҉̷̫̰̯͓̼͟ͅ/̶͉̝͚̝͈̺̻̻̫̳͈̹̻̤̙͎ͤ̋̋ͭ̌̂̆ͩͮ͊̂̏͂̓̽ͣ͠͠.̫͇̥͍̞̎ͧͪ̓̇͊ͣ̋̈ͭ͛̋̓ͦ̀ͩ̀̉ͯ͝͝/̸̓̐ͤ̉̚҉̩̳̬̱͓͍̱͖̤͍̞̞͉̻͎̝͜͜ͅ.̛̹̮͈͎̃́ͦͨ̄ͫ̑ͅ/̸̢̗̝̞̫̹̞̬̮̯̰͍͖̇̿͌̎͛̾̔̓͊͢.̷̱̟̣̱̖̖̰̯̦͇͎̱͉̪͔̫̰̋̂̀͝/̶ͨ͛̇ͫ̔ͪ̔̏̋͐ͤ̿̓̈́̿͜҉҉͇̫͚̙̥̹͖͙͓̝̤̹͕͓̠͙͉.̵̡̤͙̦̘͈͎͈̘̳͇͉ͧ̂̃͂ͧ̈́ͫ̿̓ͧ͋ͮ͑ͥ̑ͨ̿̚.̶̄̏̒ͧͯ̿̂̆̑̚͏̶̣̭̲̝͚̤̗̟̠͡**

 

 

* * *

 

 

                No wind, and yet grass that rustles. No sun, no stars, and yet a warm, afternoon glow that seems to permeate the whole field. From behind a weathered wooden fence, the Flock grazes peacefully.

                They feel… something. Heads crane up to look at the inky sky, and freeze mid-chew, grass sticking out of the sides of the mouths as they notice a thin white light streak across the darkness.

                It goes from horizon to horizon, and disappears from sight. The Flock sends a thought to Alcor, and returns to their grazing. Where is it going? He can figure that out. If it’s not in his territory, it’s no concern of theirs.

                Alcor’s quite… preoccupied with his thoughts this century, and the Flock’s message slips by unnoticed. If he’d been in a better state of mind, he almost certainly would have checked it out; he would’ve followed the light to the Midway Bar. There it would have stayed for a while, sucking on the ball joint of a femur like a pacifier and attracting the attention of several fearful demons. He would’ve noticed how they began to shoot the light glances, and whisper among themselves.

                He would’ve watched how, in time, it faded, and it returned to the physical world. How the light, the soul, would’ve floated down to a hospital and found its way into the postnatal ward, into a room with a bed and a chair beside it, both occupied.

                But he notices none of this. The soul flutters down, down, and curls up inside the form of a baby sleeping peacefully in the arms of the figure in the chair. It blinks open its eyes.

                “Oh, hey, buddy.” The man sitting in the chair smiles. “Good sleep?”

                The baby screws up its face, and there’s the first choking cry.

                “Oh, it’s okay. It’s okay, buddy. Shhhh.”

                Without opening her eyes, the woman on the bed turns. “Is it time to feed him again? What time is it?”

                “It’s… ah, been about an hour.”

                “An hour?” She gives a wry smile. “Felt much shorter than that.”

                He snorts. “Yeah, no kidding. Might be time to feed him again; maybe we should ask one of the nurses. Could you-”

                “Hold him?”

                “Yeah, then I’ll go chase someone down.” He stands up, rocking the baby. “Shh… it’s okay, buddy. You’re gonna go to Mom now, okay?”

                With a grunt, she sits up.

                “You okay to hold him?”

                “What? Hah! Of course I can hold him.” She shifts some of the pillows and holds her hands out. “Alright. Hand’em over, you worrywart.”

                The man smiles again, and gently, gently eases the baby over to her. He leans down and kisses her forehead.

                “I’ll just be a second, mi cielito. I love you.”

                She gives a tired smile back. “Love you too.”

                “I love you more.”

                “I love you most. Go on.”

                “I love you-“

                “Oh for god’s sakes Santino, go get someone already!”

                He backs off with a laugh. “Alright, alright, I’m going!”

                He walks out of the door, and she settles back into her bed. Oh, she’s gonna kill him later on; it should be a crime to make someone laugh so much when they’ve got stitches in. The baby’s still crying, and she rocks him against her chest.

                “Shh, shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, sweetie. I’m here.” She smiles down at him, at his eyes all screwed shut from crying and his wrinkled forehead and his wide open mouth making a noise as loud as a foghorn, right in her ear, and all she can think is how perfect he is.

                “It’s okay. I’m here, Ben.”


	2. Chapter 2

                _I’m here._

                There’s screaming. There’s buzzing. There’s pain, a hand squeezing on her heart, on her wrist, saying _don’t you take one more fucking step_

                _I’m here_.

                A door. Leaning against the door. Ear to the wood. Something bumping against the other side, rattling the frame. _I love you most, I love you most_. Ear to the wood, praying for the reply.

                _I’m here_.

                Sun coming up. Arms full of shopping bags, handles cutting into her forearms. Wondering _has he gone to school yet_ , knocking gently, opening the door and seeing

                _I’m here. I’m here I’m here I’M HERE I’M HERE_

               

* * *

 

                Marie wakes like she’s been punched in the gut. She yelps. She jolts up. She curls into herself. She sits with her racing heart, with her trembling hands, with the blood rushing past her ears and the yawning pit of terror in her chest. She sits, eyes clenched shut, and recites.

Loveyouloveyoumoreloveyoumost

                                Loveyouloveyoumoreloveyoumost

Loveyouloveyoumoreloveyoumost

                Ending on right. And she strokes the creases on her bedsheets, runs the back of her hand over them one two three

                One two three

                             One two three

                Her heart’s not beating so fast anymore. She can take a deep breath without feeling like she’s drowning; she does that, and she lets it out slowly.

                Slowly.

                               (slowly)

                It’s quiet now. Calm. Marie sits back, and stares at the darkness of her bedroom. Her eyes are adjusted – she can make out the fan, the carpet, the door. The bed. Her knees. Her hands. She watches them clench, and frowns.

                What’s the time? She reaches for her phone and turns it on. Squints at the light.

                Two o’clock.

                (two three one two three one two three)

(not right)

(one one one three three three)

                                                (thats six that ends on left)

Marie turns off the phone. Grits her teeth.

                                                (thats six thats six THATS SIX MAKE IT RIGHT)

Gets up. Stretches. Goes to make some tea, because god knows she’s not going back to sleep for a while.

Another nightmare… the second one in just this week. She thought they were getting better, but apparently not, and a part of her isn’t very surprised by that. Things never get better, not really; things go in circles, up and down and up and down, and she can pretend she’s alright when there’s an up but it never lasts forever.

Kettle. Marie finds it on the counter amongst a pile of dishes she should’ve washed by now, and sighs. Going down, again. At least these days she can see it coming.

Water. Sink, turns it on (and off and on and off and on) and fills the kettle – not all the way, just up to the first marker. Three minutes, it reads. Three minutes to boil a litre.

(three that ends on right)

Switch – flipped on. It starts to make a loud noise, and she stands there. Watches it. Thinks about what she’s going to do.

She rubs her eyes. Ugh, she was really counting on a good night’s sleep tonight – work’s in the afternoon, but she can’t take a nap before that because Ben… maybe she’ll have to cancel?

A frown. No, no way is she cancelling that. Remember how excited he sounded on the phone? She can’t let him down like that.

(let him down let him down let him down)

(Loveyouloveyoumoreloveyoumost)

(let him down let him down let him down)

It’s alright, she’ll just have to… deal. It’s fine. It’s fine!

(itsfine)

(three)

(end on right)

It’s fine, it’s… ugh, no, it's not. She can see where this is going.

Marie looks over the fridge. Pinned to the top, staring down at her accusingly, is the business card from her psychiatrist. She sighs. Okay… maybe it’s not fine, but she _can_ sort this out. She has the tools. It _will be_ fine.

                And she’s _not_ cancelling on Ben.

                The kettle is boiling now. It shuts off with a _click_ , and the water begins to simmer down as Marie gets out a cup. A teabag. A spoon. She goes to the fridge and gets a gallon of milk, sniffs, grimaces but brings it out anyway. Swipes the business card from the top – needs to remember to call when it’s not stupid o’clock in the morning.

                Bag in. Water in. Milk in – just the very last trickle, then she tosses it. Stir, stir, stir.

                (one two three one two three one two three)

                And slurp. It’s way too hot; even a few drops burn going down her throat. It’s a pleasant burn. She slurps again (and again), and then she brings it over to the coffee table in front of the couch. She sits down, lays back and hears the creak in the springs, feels the cushions soft against her back.

                She stays there for a second, and a wave of tiredness washes over her. She rolls her drooping eyes – oh, _now_ she’s tired, huh? Anywhere but her actual bed is prime sleeping space, apparently.

                With a sigh, Marie drags herself forward. She rubs her face, and stares through her fingers at the coffee table. There’s a simple file on it. Blue and unlabeled, but she smiles a little when she sees it. She reaches over, and flips it open.

                First page, first thing she sees is the eye. Its pupil is lined with teeth, rows on rows of them going down into darkness. A forked tongue lols out of the eyelid, shaded black. It’s drawn beautifully.

                Another page. A human leg, sliced down from the hip to the kneecap. A demon stands above it in a butcher’s apron, ripping out the femur with greedy claws. It’s signed Ben, age fourteen.

                Another page. A bleeding wine glass. Red runs through the cracks, onto the hand that cups the stem, staining it. Blood gets in their fingernails and drips from their knuckles.

                Another page, and another page, and another page, every one depicting something gruesome, something disturbing… something Ben put his heart into. The effort and skill that went into every line doesn’t scare her; it makes her smile stretch to a great big beaming grin, because that’s exactly the kind of person her son is. Passionate. Talented. Amazing.

She’s so proud of him it _hurts_ sometimes. He’s grown up so well, despite

Despite

(Despite)

Marie closes the sketchbook, and opens it and closes it and opens it and closes it. Puts it down on the table, and stares at it.

Ben’s dreams. They’re weird, bloody, gross, disturbing, they’re filled with demons and monsters… and yet they are dreams. They’re not nightmares. She rubs her burning eyes.

If only she could say the same for her own.

 

* * *

 

                Nice complex. Fountain at the entrance, flower bushes lining the main office, green green grass surrounding the building blocks. Somebody’s walking a dog past guest parking; Marie pulls in there and checks Ben’s text.

                _Apartment 1136. Its to the left when you drive in._

                (right left right)

                                (six seven eight nine)

                                                (nine nine nine)

                She pushes her thoughts away and picks up a thermos from the cup holder. It’s full of coffee, and she pulls a face every time she drinks it because it tastes like getting punched in the mouth. She used up all the milk on her tea the night before – she still needs to go to the store.

                Store. Got to remember that on the way home. Store. She takes another sip, and winces.

This’ll certainly keep her awake, that’s for sure.

                Marie gets out of the car and heads left down a sunny path. There’s little balconies to each apartment, and some of the ones on the ground floor are decorated with potted plants and lawn chairs and wind chimes that sing in the slight breeze.

                Then she comes across one filled with empty packing boxes, and she checks the number. 1136, nice.

                (six)

                She walks over to the door. It’s in an overhang of the building, in the shade.

                (six make it right MAKE IT RIGHT)

                The doorbell. She eyes it.

                (ben dying) (ben dying youre crying over his cold body) (ben dying its your fault make it right)

                Maria takes a deep breath, and puts her finger to the button. Hesitates.

                (ben dying and its all your fault MAKE IT RIGHT)

                Shudders. Presses it once… then moves her finger to the side and taps the wood right next to it two times – _ding_ , tap, tap.

Then against her leg, fast – tap tap tap, tap tap tap, tap tap tap. That’s nine. Ending on right, but it still feels like not _enough_ , it’s not-

The door opens. Marie’s jolted back into reality; she flinches. She blinks. She looks over.

                And then she smiles.

                “Matthew! Hi!”

                Matthew hides behind the doorframe at first, but when he sees it’s her he throws it open. “Hey, Ms García! So good to see you!”

                “Good to see you too!” She steps forward and gives him a hug. “This is so exciting! New apartment!”

                “I know, right? We’ve got everything just about moved in, which was, heh, much more fun than packing it all up- oh!” He steps to the side. “Why don’t you come in? I’ll stop talking your ear off outside, sorry.”

                She laughs. “No, you’re fine. Thank you.”

                The living room greets Marie as she steps inside. It’s nice and cosy – a couch, covered in blankets, is nestled in the corner next to a bookshelf. A box is sitting open next to it and it’s half-filled with various titles, textbooks and DVD’s; clearly, Matthew was in the middle of filling it when she came in. His phone is on a chair nearby, playing some sort of growling metal song.

“Oh, that’s-!” Maria watches him rush over to turn it off. “So sorry, haha! Forgot that was on.”

                “You’re fine, seriously. Hey, where’s Ben at?”

                “Ben? He’s just in the bedroom; he probably didn’t hear us because of my, um...” He clears his throat. “Ben? Ben, your mom’s here!”

                A pause. In the back of the house, Maria can hear a door open, then a _thump_.  

                “Ow.”

                Matthew snorts. “Are you okay?”

                “Yeah, yeah, just… walked into a wall.” Ben shuffles out of the hallway, rubbing his head. “Still getting the hang of the layout. Mom?”

                She breaks out into a grin. “Over here. Hi, Ben!”

                “Hi!” He reaches out for a hug. He’s much taller than her; his hands wrap around her shoulders, and squeeze tight. “It’s really nice to see you. How are you doing?”

                “Oh, I’m doing awesome! How about you?” Her grin stretches. “New apartment, huh? It looks great!”

                Ben doesn’t always smile when he’s happy, but she can see how he perks up at that.

                “Really? Thank you, I like it so far.”

                “It looks really cosy! I love the couch you’ve got.” She winks at Matthew. “And the ambiance.”

                “Oh, I-I don’t always play that. And I keep it down low- neighbors, you know, and I don't want to-“

                “Dude.” Ben touches his shoulder. “She’s joking, you’re alright.”

                “Yeah, I thought so. I was just clarifying.” He nudges Ben back. “You guys’ve both got the same issue. I can never tell when you’re joking.”

                Ben shrugs. “Yeah, well, sense of humor is genetic so that makes sense.”

                “What? Genetic? That doesn't sound right.”

                “If you don’t believe me, ask her.” He points to Marie. “She’s the doctor.”

                Marie nods solemnly.

                “Really? Like genetic, like there’s a specific gene? I don’t think that’s…” Matthew notices the grins creeping up both their faces. “Oh, you guys are the _worst_!”

                After a good laugh, Marie gets a tour of the house. There’s the bedroom, the bathroom, the kitchen, and…

                “Well, that’s pretty much it. Unless you’ve got a burning passion to see the towel closet.”

                It’s small, but it’s nice. Cosy – that word keeps coming up, but it’s a good way to describe it. It reminds her of the places she and Santino stayed at all through college: every time they moved, a little more space, a little more stuff to put in that space. They’ve hung up a picture from the time they took a road trip up to Jerome City in Northern Arizona; there it is, over the kitchen table, the two of them posing with a beheaded ghost.

                Maria smiles. What they've got here, it's sweet. It really is.

                She takes a sip of coffee, and looks over at them now. “Are you sure I’m not allowed to help?”

                “You’re banned,” says Ben. He’s unloading the dishwasher, and behind him Matthew’s staring at the saucepan with a mildly terrified expression. “We can handle this.”

                Matthew leans over to him. “Ben?”

                “Hm?”

                “Did it say six minutes or eight minutes for the chicken?”

                “Ah… six.”

                “Six?” He pokes at them. “They still look a little pale to me.”

                “I don’t know, they look fine to me.”

                Matthew nods, then stops, then turns and smacks Ben on the arm. “Oh my stars, you are just _the worst_!”

                The two of them chuckle over that, and Maria leans forward. “You sure you don’t need any help?”

                “No thank you, Ms García. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna serve you raw chicken.” He gives a nervous laugh. “I’ll just cook it some more. Crispy’s better.”

                “Alright. I trust you, just letting you know I’m here.” She rubs her eyes. “Also, you don’t have to call me Ms García.  Marie’s fine.”

                “Oh, uh, okay Ms Marie- I mean Marie.”

                “Or you can keep going with Ms García, I don’t mind. Call me…” One, big yawn.” …whatever you like, dear. Whoh, sorry about that.”

                “Tired?” Ben asks. A certain tone in his voice makes her glance over at him; it's like he can tell already that something is up. He has that uncanny ability.

                She tries for a nonchalant reply. “A little. You know, work and all that. Won’t kill me.” Then, quickly: “Speaking of work, how’s the internship going?”

                Ben doesn’t say anything for a moment; the silence hangs like a sword over Marie. Then, seeming to sense she isn’t going to say anything more, he speaks.

                “It’s, uh, good.” He takes a tupperware out of the dishwasher and taps Matthew’s shoulder. Matthew directs him to a certain cupboard. “Really good, actually. I’m learning a lot about how to prepare cases and write letters. Very interesting… a lot of paperwork, though.”

                “A _lot_ of paperwork.” Matthew adds. “You should see all the stuff on his laptop.”

                Ben snorts. “It’s a lot, but it’s good. I like it.”

                “That’s great to hear, sweetie. I’m glad you’re liking it.”

                Matthew turns off the heat on the chicken. “Alright,” He says. “I think these… are done. What do they look like to you, Ben?”

                “Hm? Oh, heh, you’re funny. Well, I’ve got the plates up here if we just want to help ourselves.”

                “Sounds good. Ms Gar- uh, you can come in the kitchen now.”

                “I’m unbanned?” She takes one last sip of coffee and stands up. “Oh, this looks really nice! Making me hungry.”

                It’s chicken and salad, and it is quite nice; the table’s quiet for a few minutes as everyone tucks in. Marie drops her fork at one point; it clatters against the plate.

                “Whoops.” She says, and gives a smile. “Butterfingers.”

                That’s enough for Matthew and Ben, but…

                (make it right)

                It bothers something in her. She grimaces. No, she's not doing this. She’s not about to make a fool of herself in front of the two of them.

                (make it right make it right)

                Marie’s sitting right by the bookshelf; she develops a sudden interest in its contents. Six shelves, but six is three and three again.

                One two three

one two three

one two three, ending on right.

                That makes her feel a little better… and at the same time, so much worse.  She’s not stupid. She knows she's saying things that don't make sense; this counting thing she does is madness. Literally madness, and it’s maddening that it’s got such a grip on her right now.

                Usually it's better. Usually she's better. Going down, she thinks; she can feel how her thoughts race faster, how the pit in her stomach yawns deeper, how her emotions feel that bit more... untethered. Unstable. She was having a good time just a few moments ago, but like a rollercoaster she's suddenly plunged from her happy heights and now she feels awful, she feels drained, and she feels it _all so intensely_...

                It's not normal. She knows it's not normal, and she’s already booked an appointment with the therapist; nothing to do now but sit tight, and, you know, try not to throw forks around Ben’s new apartment like a crazy lady. Try not to ruin their moment, their happiness.

                Should be simple enough, right? You would think so.

                Marie frowns, but at that moment her eye catches on something in the box. She pulls it out, it’s a CD, with a cover that reads, '¡En Español!' She raises her eyebrows.

                “Oh, Matthew? Are you learning Spanish?”

                Matthew looks over at her. “Spanish? Oh, no, that’s Ben’s.”

                "Ben's?"

                “Are you talking about my audio books?” Ben scratches his chin. “Yeah, last year I took a Spanish class as a free elective. I actually really liked it, so I bought those - I'm trying to keep the knowledge going. If I can get to a conversational level, that could be a really useful skill."

                "Oh, definitely. Definitely, that's..." She turns the case over, frowning. “Huh. You know, you were fluent when you were younger.”

                “Wait, what?”

                There’s genuine surprise in his voice. Marie looks up.

                “You don’t remember? I suppose you were a little young…”

                Matthew nudges him. “Hey, that explains why you’re picking it up so fast.”

                “I guess…” He still looks confused. “How old was I? Why’d I stop?”

                “I mean, you were about three-ish. And… oh.”

                Ben frowns. “Why’d I stop?

                Marie’s mouth is open, but her words dry up and she _freezes_. All of a sudden she’s not at the table anymore, she’s

 

Pressed up. Against a door, she can feel the wood, it's hard against her skull

Can feel it rattling, can feel her head hurt from that

and the things she said

the things she felt

she can hear them

feel them

like she’s there

_like she’s there…_

                                _Mom_

_Mom_

_Ms García_

                She blinks.

“Mom?”

                She’s at the table.

                Her hand hurts. She looks down. She’s squeezing the fork. It’s pressing against her knuckles. Slowly, she relaxes it.

                “Mom? Are you okay?”

                Her voice. She can’t find it. He – Ben, Ben’s voice – speaks again.

                “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.”

                She swallows. Marie swallows, and looks down. Down at her plate. Doesn’t look at him, can’t look at him.

                On her plate: what's left of her chicken. She pokes it. Suddenly, she’s not so hungry anymore. She takes a shuddering breath.

                “O-okay…” Her voice is small. Shakey. She had planned to say more but… what? What would she say? I’m sorry? Sorry for - not what - _which_ thing she's done? Sorry for right now, for ruining this, or sorry for back then, for ruining…

                A shudder. A deep breath. A smile that never felt so forced.

                “This salad… i-it’s great. How’d you, um, how’d you…?”

                She trails off. That was pathetic. God, what an idiot she-

                “How’d we make it?” Ben pointedly turns to Matthew. “Matt found the recipe. How do you make it, again?”

                “Oh, yes. I-I’ll explain. Well first, we bought some chicken…”

                Matthew talks for a while, and slowly, slowly (slowly), Marie composes herself. She wasn’t expecting that, wasn’t expecting how that would spiral. The Spanish CD’s still by her plate; she slips that back in the box, and breathes. Breathes.

                                (breathes)

                “…and the box of salad, we sort of… dump it in with the tomatoes, and yeah. Salad. It’s not, like, a super hard recipe or anything.” Matthew’s voice goes quiet. “Sorry.”

                Marie looks over at him, at his cheeks gone red and his head hung low. She tries for another smile; this one feels just a little more genuine.

                “No, you have nothing to apologise for.” She puts a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, so much.”

                She doesn’t know if the awkward expression he gives back is a smile. Ben says something else, though, and the conversation moves on, while the things left unsaid between them stay as they are.


	3. Chapter 3

                Ben hugs her extra tightly when she leaves. It isn’t long after lunch; she checks the time and says, “Oh, looks like it’s time for me to go!”, and maybe, strictly speaking, she _could_ have stayed longer, but she’s outstaying her welcome.

                More accurately, she _feels_ like she’s outstaying her welcome. It’s an important distinction, one she sometimes forgets to make.

                She’s wrapping her arms around Ben now, her face pressed against his chest. He’s squeezing her shoulders, and she’s squeezing him back just as hard.

                “It was really good to see you,” he’s saying. His same impassive voice, but a little softer. “Love you, Mom. Drive safe.”

                “Love you too, Ben, and I will. Thanks for having me over.”

                “Thanks for coming, it was fun. We gotta arrange another time to meet up – what’s your schedule like?”

                “Eh… busy.” A snort. She pulls back. “We’ll work it out, sweetie. I’ll text you.”

                “Okay.”

                Marie backs out of the house, waving at the two of them. “Okay! Well, I’ll leave you guys to get settled in your new apartment! Oh, it’s so exciting – can’t wait to see when it’s all moved in! Love you both!”

                “Love you too, Mom.”

                “Bye, Ms García!”

                “Bye! Bye!”

                 The door closes slowly. The gap narrows, then _click_. Her hand drops to her side.

                “Bye…” she says. And then, she sighs.

                Turns around.

                Heads right down the path, which is shadowy now as the sun ducks behind apartment blocks. What was a refreshing breeze now gives her goosebumps.

                Heads back to her car, and drives to work.

 

* * *

 

                Marie García. She’s small. She’s slight. Before grey hairs started to streak across her scalp, she looked young – even still, there’s a certain kind of awkwardness to her, a twitchiness that makes people think _childish_. _Naïve_. _Scared_.

 _Delicate_.

                Dr Marie García. Four days a week, she’s a trauma surgeon at the Southern Arizona Hospital just north of Phoenix. She scrubs in and for the next ten hours, that all falls away. For the next ten hours, she works with blood and guts and bones, she works with car crash victims coding on the table, with with GSW’s, with stabbings, with summons gone wrong and so much more. With a scalpel she cuts them down, she fixes them from within, and then she stitches them back up. Every second counts, every choice is crucial, every moment’s a crisis and Dr García?

                She _lives_ for this crisis.

                She’s a cool head here, a steady hand.

                She thinks on her feet.

                Sights don’t shock her. Smells don’t faze her. She’s seen and smelled it all before.

                Every second matters. Every. Second. Matters, and suddenly her racing thoughts are keeping pace with the situation. Just barely keeping pace – lives are on the line, and there’s no time for her own issues, her own worries. She has to push them aside, and _focus_.

 _Focus_.

                Dr García’s mind is never as clear as it is in a crisis. The quiet, the calm, the absolute concentration… ironically, it’s almost relaxing. It’s a break from worries, from (thoughts), from insecurities that pick at her and misfirings in her mind that send her spiraling.

                She can put it all aside.

                She can put _herself_ aside; her whole self, everything she is.

                _She can stop existing._

                Nothing but a hand guiding a knife. Nothing but a robot – made to be useful, and nothing less. That’s what she is, and nothing less.

                Dr García. She’s the eye in a storm. She exists to help people, and when every second matters, she gives every one her all. Crisis doesn’t trip her up; crisis is where she thrives. Crisis is where she stands tall.

                Then the dust settles, and breaks her.

                 Marie’s sitting in the parking lot when the exhaustion hits. Ten hours of concentration on hardly two hours of sleep is really… (two one two three one two three…)

(one, two…)

                 She’s slumped over the steering wheel… then she jerks up, eyes going wide at the sight of her dashboard.

                “Oh, shi-!” She slams on the breaks, only to realise the car isn’t even running yet. A massive, massive sigh of relief. “ _Ohhhh_ , thank god. Jeez…”

                Her eyes are burning. Slowly, Marie reaches up and rubs circles over them (one two three), waits for her heart to stop hammering against her chest. She’s bone tired, running on fumes and fading adrenaline… she just wants to go home, go to bed…

                Marie drags her hands down her face, and he stares through her fingers at the steering wheel. Ugh, how’s she going to get there, though? She can’t drive like this...

                A frown.

                No, she can’t. She considers it, because she’s the kind of idiot who does that after spending all night patching up car crash victims, but no. She’s calling a taxi.

                Phone number. She pulls it up, grimaces at all the _wrong_ numbers

                                (one two three one two three one two three)

                                (make it right)

                and calls.

                “Hello, this is-“

                “I need a taxi for- oh, sorry.” She rubs her head. “Shoulda let you finish, um… you know South Arizona Hospital?”

                The voice chuckles. “Rough night?”

                “Yeah…” Marie sits back, and gazes out of the side window. “Yeah, a little…”

                Lots of cars still here, bonnets glowing white under the floodlights. Two people are getting out a few spaces down from her; their hair and their shoulders are blinding, but the rest is in deep shadow.

                There’s another figure too, she notices. A man, tall and wiry, facing away from her. He’s unaffected by the stark lighting, free of shadows, and she can clearly see his long, combed hair, his smart suit top, and his dumb old red-patterned boxers. He always does that and it makes her crack up at the sight, because _oh my god Santino, the house feels like a sauna, go turn on the air conditioner and put some pants on!_

                _Okay, okay. I’ll do it in that order, mi cielito._

                Marie stares at him, and from half a parking lot away she can hear his voice, his twinkling smile, his belly laugh. Then her voice.

                                _I’m here_ , she says.

 _I’m here_ …

                She blinks, and then-

                “Ma’am? Ma’am?”

                Marie’s cheek is squashed against the glass; she jolts up, eyes wildly darting around the place. “Huh?”

                “Ma’am?” A phone – it’s in her limp hand. She puts it back to her ear. “Are you still there?”

                “Yes! Yes, I’m still here. Sorry.”

                “I was saying we can send a guy out to you in ten minutes. Is that alright?”

                “Oh, yes. That’s perfect. Thank you.”

                “Alright, ma’am. We will see you soon.”

                A glance out the side window. The man is gone… of course he is. He’d never been there in the first place. Marie heaves a sigh.

                “Okay,” she says. “I’ll be here. See you soon.”

                And _click_.

 

* * *

 

                Opening the front door and feeling that rush of cool air is heaven to Marie. Home at last, she can _finally_ go to sleep, there’s no taxi driver asking her for medical horror stories, _nothing is going to go_ -

                What the hell is up with her wards?

                Marie squints down at the base of her door, where several glowing symbols are flickering a yellowish-orange. The one that detects demons is flirting with red; there’s clearly one in her house.

                Because of course there is.

                She heaves a deep, frustrated sigh and glares into the darkness of the kitchen. Then she gets her purse out and starts rifling through it.

                “Alright, Alcor,” she speaks loudly, deliberately. “You can come out now. And if you're not Alcor, I’m summoning him in the next five seconds.”

                In her purse is a little card with the Twin Star on it. She draws that out.

                “One… two-”

                He pops into existence right in front of her.  “It’s me, it’s me! Don’t freak out.”

                                (three)

                Marie looks up at him.

                                (three three three)

                And glares at his glowing yellow eyes – Alcor’s glowing yellow eyes. This is the actual Dreambender, the Forgotton One, the world’s most powerful and fearsome demon... and probably Ben’s strangest - friend? Guardian? Acquaintance? He doesn’t really mention Alcor that much, so who knows. All she knows is that she’s way too tired to be dealing with this right now.

                She looks down again, and stuffs the card back in her purse. “What are you doing here?”

                “Sorry, sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t shielding well enough; I completely forgot about the wards. I didn’t mean to-”

                “I didn’t ask why I caught you, I asked what you’re doing here in the first place.”

                She can see him cringe away. “R-right. Sorry, again.”

                “Well?”

                “Well, i-it wasn’t anything, I was just supposed to be checking up on you.” He groans. “Unobtrusively... ugh, Ben’s gonna kill me for this.”

                Marie glances up sharply at that. “Ben sent you?”

                “Just, uh, just to make sure you’re doing okay-“

                “Yeah no, obviously it was to check on me.”

                His smile, already looking very apologetic, crumples further. “Oh. Sorry. Um… glad you know already.”

                The burning under her eyes is back. Marie reaches up to rub them again, and sighs. Great, she went off and worried Ben again… worried him enough to sic Alcor on her. He’s already got the new apartment to think about, the internship, the Bar Exam; he’s got so much on his plate right now.

                A long, tired sigh. And she had to go and add to it, didn’t she.

                She was supposed to be there for _him_.

                “So, uh,” Alcor starts. “You doing… you doing okay? Thumbs up?”

                Seriously, 'thumbs up'? Marie doesn’t shoot him a look for that – she doesn’t have it in her to bother. “Just tell Ben I’m fine.”

                “Okay… Are you actually okay, though?”

                “I don’t know; who knows. I’m tired.” She stares down, down at his shoes. “But I can sort it out, okay? It’s not his problem.”

                “Well, even if it’s not, I’m sure he’d want to-“

                “No.” Marie cuts him right off. “Ben doesn’t want me putting my problems on him. He’s been very clear about that. He’s a good person, he’d try and pretend it’s fine, but I know how much he hates it and I don’t get to do that to him again!”

                Alcor jerks back as her words; his shoes leave the ground and stay floating. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and when he does, he speaks with a voice that’s small.

                “O-okay,” He manages. Marie cringes at his trembling tone. “I’ll just… I’ll tell Ben you’re fine. Sorry, I didn’t… um, sorry.”

                He sounds like a kicked puppy, and her stomach sinks; she went too far. She _knows_ Alcor – not well, but well enough to know he’s surprisingly sensitive for a demon. She shouldn’t have yelled at him like that.

                “I’ll, I’ll just go now. Sorry, again-“

                With a sigh, she stops him. “No, you’re fine. I’m sorry, Alcor. I didn't mean to shout at you, I'm just... ugh.”

                “It’s okay.”

                “It’s not.” She gives a slow blink. “I need to go to sleep. Just tell Ben I’m doing fine, okay? A whole two thumbs up.”

                Alcor hesitates, and then nods.

                “I got a, uh, doctor’s appointment set for this weekend, you can tell him that. I’ll be fine.”

                “Okay. I’ll do that. I’m going now.” He says that… and he doesn’t leave. “Uh, anything else I can do?”

                He’s staring at her expectantly. Marie can see he still looks a little worried... _He_ looks worried. He's not just asking for Ben's sake, she realises.

                That gives Marie pause. She stops, and seriously considers his offer.

                “No, I… can’t really think of anything. Not at the moment. I’m just going to bed, I… oh.” A thought strikes her. “Actually, there is something you might be able to help me with.”

                “What is it?”

                “You know those loops you have? The ones that stop you from dreaming?” She frowns at his blank expression. “Shaped like an anchor?”

                “Ohhh, the one I made for Ben? That’s uh, just a physical anchor; it’s a charm enchanted to keep souls in bodies – necromancers invented it, actually." A nervous laugh. "They managed to keep someone alive this time. That's, that's irony.”

                Marie nodded. “So it doesn’t have anything to do with dreams, then.”

                “No, it’d be useless on you. Your soul stays put. Ben…” Alcor makes a face. “is different. As far as I can tell, his soul didn’t attach properly to his body? I’ve never seen it happen before; it’s kind of fascinating, actually.”

                Fascinating… that’s one way to describe it.

                “But you mentioned dreams? I can help with that.” He’s smiling now, showing a bit more teeth than she’s happy to see. “I happen to be a dream demon, Dr García.”

                “I know that.” She sighs. “I just want a good night’s sleep, okay? I’ve been having some nightmares the past few days and that’s been wrecking me.”

                “Just nightmares? Oh, I don’t even need a deal for that – I eat those for breakfast!”

                “Alright, uh, good for you. That’d be a big help.” She shuffles back. “Goodnight, Alcor.”

                “Sweet dreams,” He says, and stares at the back of her head as she walks out of the room. Marie rolls her eyes at that – if he’s not acting like a kicked puppy, he’s acting like a full-blown creepy demon. It’s never in the middle with this guy.

                Marie closes the bedroom door, sinks into her mattress, and promptly stops caring about him.

* * *

 

                _I’m here._

                It’s her voice, her whispering, her promise.

                _I’m here._

                It’s her voice, and it echoes in her mind.

                _I’m here._

                Again

                                _I’m here._

                And again

                                _I’m here, I’m here, I’m here…_

                Never to fade out.

_I’M HERE_

                Her voice. Her whisper, but it’s deafening. Her promise, but it’s

                                                _I’M HERE_

                Breaking her. And she can hear a laughter in it, like it’s mocking her. Around and around her mind it prances, pointing and laughing

 And laughing

AND LAUGHING

                                                                _I’M HERE I’M HERE I’M HERE I’M HERE I’M_

_here_

                                _im_

i

* * *

 

                It all fades to drowning darkness, and Marie gasps herself awake. What the hell? There’s a weight on her chest, she can’t

                quite

                get a full breath.

It’s like something’s sucking the air from her. There’s glowing gold, up above her head. Eyes – _his eyes_ , and once she sees that she can make out his shadowy body, his suit legs pressing down on her lungs.

                “Alcor…” Marie manages, but she feels so _drained_. What’s happening? “Alcor, get off… get off me…”

                He doesn't move a muscle. He's unnaturally still, and when Marie glances up at his eyes again, she can see they're different; his glowing pupils are blown wide, and gold bleeds from them and leaks down his face. Alcor is not entirely there… and he’s _killing_ her.

Marie grits her teeth, and that’s an effort. She has to get his attention.

                One deep breath - the deepest breath she can manage. In, out, then she throws her arms out and flings herself at the bedside table. Her purse – she can just barely snag the shoulder strap. She claws it in close, unzips it with her teeth, and rifles through it.

                Her vision’s going fuzzy at the edges. Come on, come on… aha!

                “Splendidum stella-“ Marie bites some skin off the side of her fingernail and presses the wound to Alcor’s calling card. “te invoco. Te invoco ut facere voluntatem meam. Dico nomen tuum: Alcor…”

                The card glows gold… and the weight lifts from her chest. _Air_ ; Marie gulps it in, and almost immediately the wooziness starts to fade. Wow. Wow (wow), that was… close. She almost died.

                                (loveyouloveyoumoreloveyoumost)

                “Dr García?”

                A scowl forms on her face. No, she almost got killed.

                “It’s okay, I was just eating the nightmare for you. You didn’t have to… summon me?” His eyes, now back to normal, suddenly look confused. “Wait, huh? When’d you take that out? What just-”

                “ _Get off me_.”

                Her voice is dangerously quiet; she’ll explode if she raises it any higher. Alcor flinches at it, then he springs back like her bed’s made of thorns.

                “Sorry, sorry,” he’s saying. “I didn’t mean to-“

                “Didn’t mean to _what_? What the _hell_ were you doing to me?”

                “I thought I was just eating your nightmares!” Alcor cowers away as she stands up. “That’s the last thing I remember, I-I swear!”

                “I trusted you this _one time_ to do me a favour, and you take advantage of me!?" She backs him into the dresser and stabs a finger right at his neck. "You nearly killed me! What is _wrong_ with you?”

                “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

                "Didn't mean to? What, you just _accidentally_ tried to suck out my soul?”

                “Sucking out your soul?” Alcor frowns at first. “I wasn’t… I didn’t…“

                He trails off. His eyes go wide; he slaps both hands over his mouth.

                “Well, it certainly felt like getting your soul sucked out.” She glowers down at him. “I couldn’t imagine a worse way to die than by that… that thing you just did to me. And- what are you doing now?”

                Alcor hunches over, quivering. His hands are still over his mouth; he makes a muffled noise, then-

                Coughing. Retching. Something slops onto Marie's carpet; something slimy black, but with little flecks of white that shine like stars in the sky. It hisses and eats away at the carpet, and it smells _awful_. Even Marie finds herself wrinkling her nose. Alcor's straightening up, and she shoots him a withering scowl.

                “ _Seriously_?!” She spits that word like venom, but Alcor doesn’t flinch away. He doesn't seem to be paying attention to her.

                He leans down, and touches his fingertip to a white speck in the sludge. It sticks to him as he draws it out. The freaked-out expression he’s wearing as he looks at it… he turns that expression on her, and she feels a pit in her stomach.

                “What is that?” Marie’s still glaring daggers at him, but her voice is a little more measured. “Don’t just gape at me. "What is it?”

                He blinks. After a hesitation, he speaks.

                “This... This is why I lost control. It’s a tiny piece of soul, i-in your nightmare.” He gestures at the starry puddle at his feet. “I didn’t expect anything like this- I didn’t expect your nightmare to taste so good! That’s why-“

                “Soul?” She eyes the speck. "Is that my-?"

                “Your soul?” He shakes his head. “Nonono, it’s- that’s the weirdest part! These little pieces, none of them are from you! They’re all other people souls’s, in-in your mind! In your nightmare!”

                Marie frowns. “That’s ridiculous. It's not possible.”

                “But it is! Look! You’ve got, like bits of other people in you! Eughh, that’s…” He covers his mouth again.  “Nope, nope, I’m not gonna throw up again. How did that even happen? I have to investigate!”

                “Investigate? How?”

                “I don’t know, I just- I need to think.” Alcor rubs his temples, letting out a low groan.”Ughhh… first Ben and now you with the weird dreams. It's like the world's worst family tradition."

                She doesn’t answer that. She looks down at the sludge on the carpet, at the flecks of soul sparkling across its surface.

                Flecks of soul... flecks that don’t belong to her. Marie takes a step back.

                “Alcor,” she starts slowly. “What are you going to do with me now?”

                “What do you mean?”

                “Your investigation.” A wary frown. “I don’t want to be part of it. Am I allowed to go to sleep?”

                Alcor raises an eyebrow. “Okay, that's fine, and of course you're allowed to go to sleep! You'll still have the nightmares, though – I don’t think I can help with those. I can't eat them.” He strokes his chin. “They've got to be stuck somewhere in your mind... Maybe there’s a way to get them out of there directly? I could take a look and-“

                “No." Marie shakes her head. "That’s what I meant when I said I don’t want to be a part of this.”

                “Wait, what? Why? I could help-”

                “I don’t want your help.” She finds the edge of her bed and slumps herself down. “I don't want you messing around inside my head. Whatever I've got going on - it's fine, okay? It _works._ If you go poking around in there trying to fix stuff, you're going to make it worse. So goodnight.”

                “But-“

                “ _Goodnight_.”

                Alcor clamps his mouth shut. He sighs. “Alright, alright. I’ll, uh… can I talk to you in the morning?”

                “You can do that, but I'm not going to change my mind."

                "Okay. Thank you. Goodnight and, um... Sorry."

                She watches him turn away and dissolve into shadow. The sludge on her carpet goes with him.

                Good, she thinks. She was not looking forward to cleaning that up.

                Marie lays her head down on the pillow, feels the softness, the safeness. Feels the burning in her eyelids, urging her to go to sleep, but…

                It’s not coming. There’s a churning fear in her gut, keeping her awake, keeping her _thinking_.

                _Bits of other people in her_ _._ Where did they come from? Staring up at the ceiling, thoughts come. Theories. Memories. She shuts her eyes, but she can’t shut them out.

                So she gets up. She brushes herself off.

                And she goes to make some tea, to do _something_ to get her mind away from this whole mess.


	4. Chapter 4

                Birdsong. It’s the worst thing in the world to hear when you’re trying to fall asleep. The sun glowers through Marie’s curtains and she covers her head with a pillow, but she can’t escape the awful, awful chirping.

                Morning is here, whether she likes it or not.

                She groans into her mattress. Then, after a long hesitation, she rolls herself over and drops her feet on the floor. Her legs feel cold coming out of the covers; it makes her grimace.

                Slowly, she stands. She stretches. She shuffles into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes with one hand while reaching for the kettle with another.

                                (kettle)

                                                (one two three one two three one two three)

                                                                (water ends on right)

                She goes through her rituals of turning on the tap, flicking on the switch, getting out the cup, feeling a little less like a zombie with every motion. By the time she gets to the fridge, she’s awake enough to notice something’s missing.

                “No milk.” Marie taps a finger (onetwothree) against the fridge door. “Forgot to go shopping… Idiot.”

                “Did you want some milk?”

                A voice comes from behind Marie and makes her jump. She whirls around to see Alcor floating way too close to her face, a nervous smile on his cheeks and a bottle of something way too purple to be milk clutched to his chest.

                Before he can speak again, she points at it.

                “I am not putting that in my tea.”

                “Huh?” He looks confused. “But I thought you said you were out of milk?”

                “Yes, and that is not milk.” She pauses, then adds: “Not cow’s milk, anyway.”

                “Cow’s milk…” Alcor seems to ponder that for a second, then his eyes widen in understanding. “Ohhh, right! That’s the type humans normally drink! Can’t believe I forgot that.”

                The kettle’s boiling. Marie walks past him to get out a teabag.

                “Yeah, I can get you some of that milk-”

                “No, thank you.”

                He floats up to her again, way too close for comfort. She tries to ignore him as she pours her tea.

                “Don’t worry! I know what I’m getting this time, I can just-”

                “No!” Marie snaps. She grits her teeth as he recoils. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want your help, okay? I don’t want you - I don’t know - teleporting a bunch of severed cow udders in here or something. I can live without milk. _It’s fine._ ”

                With that, she turns away from Alcor. Gets out a spoon. Stirs her tea one-two-three one-two-three one-two-three and doesn’t look at the kicked-puppy expression she knows he’s got on his face again.

                Out of the corner of her eye, though, she can’t help but notice him backing away. He doesn’t say a word; it seems like he’s left, but then she turns around and sees that is not so. He’s sitting on the couch in the living room, his back to her, his head bowed over something.

                Marie gives him an odd look, but he doesn’t stir.

                Should she say something?

                She considers her words for a moment, but nothing comes, and she opts to sit at the kitchen table instead. Perched there, sipping her black tea and looking out into space as the sound of birdsong hangs between them, Marie can’t help but find this a little awkward. The silence stretches, and paper rustles as Alcor flips a page of something. She cranes her head to see what that something is, but it’s out of view.

                So she just sips her tea. Jiggles her knee a little bit. Checks the time on her phone, grimaces at 5:42 AM.

                                (five four two five)

                                                (three four five three four five three four five)

                                                                (nine nine nine ending on right)

                She didn’t get nearly enough sleep to deal with this. The nightmares last night - they were the worst they’d ever been in her life. Trying to get any rest had been a hellish cycle of going to sleep and waking up in a cold sweat at the sight of awful visions and voices that made her skin crawl; she shudders at the memory. It was terrible, and, staring at the back of Alcor’s head, she could think of only one reason why they’d gotten so much worse.

                Letting him into her mind, letting him eat her nightmares… it had stirred them up like some kind of hornet’s nest. Of course it had; what did she think was going to happen when she let a demon in her mind?

                Marie rubs her eyes. Stupid. She's so stupid.

                Hopefully this isn’t permanent. Hopefully, if she leaves them alone, they’ll settle down again. Hopefully.

                For now... well, she has other stuff she can be worrying about. She takes another sip of tea and then stands up, clearing her throat - Alcor doesn’t look over at the sound.

                “I need to get ready for the day,” she says. “So, I’m going to go now-”

                Alcor’s voice cuts in abruptly. “You know what I love about this?”

                “Huh?” Marie blinks. “Love about what? Alcor?”

                He doesn’t so much as twitch in response. He sits there, motionless, staring down at his lap.

                "Alcor?"

                When he doesn't respond, she hesitates for a moment, tapping her fingers (one two three) against her mug. Then she takes a deep breath, and walks over to him, puts a hand on the couch he’s sitting on, leans forwards to catch a glimpse of what he’s staring at.

                What she sees surprises her, at first.

                “Ben’s drawings?” Marie frowns down at the blue file in Alcor’s hands. She watches him flip through pages of his art. “Huh. I suppose that kind of imagery is right up your aisle.”

                Alcor closes the file. “It’s not that. Look.”

                “Look at what?”

                “Look at how you’ve kept them, in a nice little file. You’ve ordered them by age - that had to have taken some time.” He places it on the table, and smiles. “Look at where you keep them. On display, in the centre of the living room. That’s what I love.”

                She raises an eyebrow. “I don’t see what you mean.”

                “You don’t? Don’t you think you should be scared of the things he liked to draw?” He looks up at her. “Don’t you think you should be scared of him?”

                At that, Marie's scowl deepens.

                “Excuse me? Absolutely not.” She steps back and crosses her arms. “What are you implying, Alcor? I’m well aware that Ben’s soul used to belong to a demon, but that has very little bearing on the person he is now! The things he drew - they’re just that! They’re drawings! That’s what he did with the horrible things he saw at night: nothing dangerous, nothing to be scared of! Just all these beautiful drawings he put his heart into, and… why are you smiling like that?”

                Alcor’s smile is odd; at first it was happy, but as she spoke… it didn’t fade, but it did shrink somewhat, and a shine snuck into his eyes that’s strangely wistful. He doesn’t speak, at first. As she watches, he looks away again, down at the file in his lap. Then, quietly:

                “And that’s exactly what I love about this.” He looks away again, down at the file in his lap. “You care about him so much… not despite of who he is; you actually embrace it. That’s incredible. ”

                “That’s not some sort of achievement. I’m his mother, of course I care about him.”

                “Not an achievement.” A soft snort. “With all the bad parents out there in the world, I’d say it is.”

                At that, Marie's stomach drops. She steps back, clutching her cup of tea. Alcor continues.

                “There’s a lot of kids out there who’d kill for someone like you. I mean, your son’s a demon, and this is how you react? ‘I’m gonna put all the weird pictures he drew into a file so I can look at them whenever I want!’ I mean, that’s amazing! I wish mine had… um…”

                He blinks and looks up at her, seeming to come back to himself somewhat. That strange little smile widens into a regular happy grin.

                “Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat. “That’s all I wanted to say. I’m sorry about last night; if you don’t trust me after I lost control like that, that’s totally fair, and I’ll leave you alone. I just wanted you to know that… I really admire how you treat Ben, and if you ever do want my help-”

                “No, don’t.” She shakes her head. “Stop.”

                “Stop? Stop wh-”

                “Just stop, okay?” Stepping back again, she takes a deep breath. “You’re being very flattering, but I don’t deserve a pat on the back for the way I treated Ben. I wasn’t a good parent to him. I tried to be, but I just wasn’t.”

                “You-”

                “I really let him down when he was younger. I really hurt him. Even if things are better now between us, it doesn't mean I get to pretend I did anything exceptional, so please... please don't." She looks away. "Please don't say that to me."

                Alcor doesn’t say anything to that. He’s silent again, and she doesn’t dare look at him. Instead, she turns around, clenching the cup in her hands - tea’s gone cold, she can feel it. She walks over to the kitchen, sets it on the counter. Only then does she sneak a glance over to the couch, and see Alcor has completely disappeared from sight.

                Only from sight, though. Marie doesn’t need to look at the wards flickering by the door to feel his presence, his gaze on her. She rubs her eyes and shuffles over to the shoe rack.

                “I’m going to get some milk,” she mumbles, to herself as much as to him.  “It’ll be fine. Won’t be gone long.”

                She shoves her feet - one two

                                (onetwothree onetwothree onetwothree right left right)

                 into some already tied sneakers, and heads for the door. The sunlight’s blinding; she squints and shutters her eyes as she stumbles towards the car, feels for the handle…

                ...the handle?

                Oh, right.

                Her car’s still at the hospital. Because of course it is.

                Goddammit. She glances back at the house, then scowls and starts marching down the pavement. It’s fine. She has legs, she can walk.

                Everything is fine.

* * *

 

                Marie walks to the corner store. It’s summer in Southern Arizona; she can feel the sweat beading on her scalp, the shirt sticking to her back, can see the outline of the pavement against her eyelids every time she blinks. The heat is oppressive, pressing down on her, unpleasant, inescapable... and utterly ridiculous, because she’s hardly been out here five minutes and her skin already feels medium rare.

                Why does she live here, again?

                Pressing her palms to her eyesockets, she lets out an extended groan and turns her face away from the sun. She can feel the plodding of her feet against the concrete, can hear the whoosh of cars going past her; in the shade of her hands, she opens her eyes again and stares down at her shoes.

                They go one foot in front of the other, one-two, but she counts them (one-two-three), (right-left-right). A crack in the pavement’s coming up, and she steps left on it because left is bad, she puts all the bad luck in her left leg so nobody dies.

                A wry smile. Because that’s the kind of thought a sane person has.

                                (Right left right)

                                                (Make it right)

                                                                (loveyouloveyoumoreloveyoumost)

                Marie keeps her head down, and tries to ignore the sun scorching her shoulders, the air baking her lungs. Her legs keep walking (right-left-right) and she can’t quite stop counting them yet.

                And she’s staring down at the pavement-

                there’s a flicker.

                At the very edge of her vision, a figure.

                She stops and looks, but it’s gone when she glances its way.

                Marie frowns, tiredly. Oh, great, she thinks, and a pit of dread forms in her stomach. She lingers for a moment, squinting at the opposite street, but it’s nowhere to be seen. There’s no hints, no traces she can see of its presence. Of course there isn’t; there’s nothing to be seen because it's a trick of her mind.

                _Because it doesn’t exist._

It doesn’t exist, but she spots it again - a shadowy flash in the corner of her eye. Her her mind flashes back to last night. Dreams. Souls. A thousand specks like stars shimmering on her carpet, _bits of other people in her-_

                No. Stop.

                Marie physically shakes her head, tells herself no no, stop, this is just her brain fucking with her. She’s just tired and having a bad day - nothing unusual there. She’ll get the milk, go home, try and sleep this off before work. If she can’t, she’ll call out, but either way _it’ll be fine-_

                Another flicker makes her scowl.

                -and she’s not going to play this game. He _doesn’t exist,_ he just doesn’t, and it’s way too hot outside to be standing here thinking about it.

                With a huff, she turns around and starts walking to the corner store again; she can see it now, it won’t take much longer. She plods on, and her eyelids burn, and the sun cooks her shoulders, and even though he doesn’t exist, she catches glimpses of a figure on the other side of the street.

                Between her and him, the cars are rushing past - _shhhhhhooom,_ that’s the sound they make. When Ben was little, he used to giggle like crazy whenever they imitated it.

                “Shhhhhhooooom!”

                Laughter. She can hear him now.

                “Shhhhhrrooom!”

                “Zzzooooom!”

                “¡Mira, Ben! Una moto: nyrrrrrrooooooooom - _chik chik_ \- NYYYYROOOOO-”

                “Oh, the turn! Santino, you missed the turn!”

                “...I totally did, didn’t I. Whoops, heh, I got a little too into the game… what’s that, Ben? Are you laughing at me? Eso fue cómico, ¿eh?”

                Marie snorts and sits back-

                But she’s not sitting. She stumbles back into reality with a yelp, blinks hard as she gets her footing back. Her eyes dart wildly around her surroundings - still on the pavement, still walking. Coming up to an intersection now, and look: the corner store's just on the other side. She's nearly there.

                Marie presses the button and rubs her eyes as she waits to cross. Everything is okay, she tells herself, she's nearly there. Don't look at him. Just ignore him. Hold yourself together a little longer...

                She watches the traffic lights flicker yellow. Cars stop, walking man sign flickers on, and she walks away from the flicker of a man in her periphery.

                Across the street she goes, and into the store. Bells jingle as she opens the door, and the rush of cool air feels like heaven on her skin. A woman looks up from the cash register and smiles - at her, Marie realises, but only when she’s already stalked past the counter and into the drink aisle.

                Oops. She cringes at that while she looks for the milk section.

                There it is, right at the end. There's not a huge selection, and she stands there, trying to figure out if they sell them in bigger sizes than the little quart containers...

                And becomes aware of him again.

                Not as a flicker in the corner of her eye this time, but as a sudden, skincrawling _certainty_ that he’s standing right behind her.

                Instinctively she looks over her shoulder, and sees nothing but a magazine display. There’s no one else in the aisle with her, but the _certainty_ doesn’t fade. She turns back to the milk and it still feels like he’s inches from her back, like she should be feeling his breath on her neck, his hands on her shoulders, his voice in her ear:

                “You look tense, Marie.”

                She doesn’t realise she’s got her eyes closed until she catches herself almost falling over. She tries to blink the sleepiness out of her eyes-

                and that’s when she feels his arms wrap around her shoulders. He hugs her loosely around her neck, and leans on her like he used to - not too much, but enough for to feel his weight. It's comforting, warm, safe... it feels real.

                God, it feels so real. This is exactly like she remembers.

                His words, exactly like what he used to say.

                “Do you want to talk about it?”

                With a slow, shaking hand, Marie reaches over her shoulder. She feels for his chin - it feels like it’s resting right there - but there’s nothing.

                Nothing.

                He doesn’t exist, yet she can feel him squeeze a little tighter.

                She closes her eyes. Swallows the lump in her throat. Speaks, softer than a whisper:

                “Are you real?”

                He doesn’t respond immediately. The silence - she can’t bear it long.

                “Just tell me if you’re real.” And then hissed through clenched teeth: “ _Please._ ”

                He sighs, and sways her a little bit. Then:

                “Sounds like you had a rough day. I’m sorry."

                What? Marie shakes her head. “That’s not- are you real? Have you been here, this whole time, in my…?” She feels him squeeze again and tries to shrug him off; his embrace won’t go away. “Please, just give me an answer. Say yes or no.”

                “Do you want to have dinner, or do you just want to go to sleep?" His chuckle makes her want to scream. "I made that pasta you and Ben really liked last time. It was a battle to save a plate for you.”

                “No, that’s not an answer! Why aren’t you listening to me? You’re- you’re not real. You’re not! You can’t be, okay?” Marie backs up. Grips her hair with trembling fists. “If you were real, you’d talk to me, o-or you’d give me a sign, or anything! _Anything,_ Santino!”

                “Okay.” He says. “Goodnight, mi cielito. I love you.”

 _I love you._ She shakes her head at those words, but a part of her still opens her mouth.

                “I love you more.”

                Her voice, it’s shaky. Watery. He seems to laugh at the sound, and brings her in close.

                “I love you most,” he whispers, then he kisses her.

 _He kisses her,_ and nothing in this world has ever felt so real. Marie stares at him with wide, wide eyes and he’s _right there, right_ in front of her…

                And yet the more she stares at him, the less real he seems. The less real everything seems; the weight and warmth of his body fades like a dying dream, to be replaced with something hard, something cold against her back. She looks for him and suddenly he’s not there, had never been there, had never existed in the first place.

                Then she opens her eyes, and stares at the woman leaning over her. Stares at the fridge doors of the drink aisle looming over her. Stares at the tile she’s lying on.

                “...Ma’am? Ma’am?”

                The woman from the cash register is shaking her shoulder. She looks up.

                “You passed out, are you okay? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

                “Hospital…” Marie blinks. “No, I should call out.”

                The woman says more words, but she's not listening. At that moment her phone buzzes; she can feel it in her pocket, pressed against the tile. She sits up and takes it out.

                “Oh, I have a text. From Ben.”

                “Ma’am?”

                She unlocks her phone. “One second, sorry.”

                Scrolling over to her text messages, she begins to read:

_Hi Mom. Had a great time w you yesterday, hope youre doing well. Would love to meet up again sometime, maybe go and see a movie or something? You can text or call me when youre free and I can make it work. Love you._

                There’s a flicker at the edge of her vision as she gets to the end. She sees that, and she feels the hardness of the store tile she’s sitting on, and she thinks this is probably not what Ben meant by ‘doing well’.

                A grim smile. No, most likely not.

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for intrusive thoughts, suicidal ideation, body and insect horror, and abuse.
> 
> 7/4/19 - Special thanks to lilaclilyoo, who has gone above and beyond and reviewed pretty much every story I've posted online. It's been really encouraging to read them, especially the ones posted on some of my weirder works like this one, and it's definitely given me a lot of motivation to revisit them, so I wanted to let them know I appreciate it!


End file.
